PJs I Love You: The Joy of Being Jhalla in Your Tattered Pyjama

When Sinead O’Connor sang “Nothing Compares to You” for her love that walked out of her life, she had obviously not discovered the orgasmic pleasure of slipping into soft pyjamas and a braless tee after a long tiring day. Especially when the pyjama is as old as the Big Bang and the top has as many holes as there are stars in the sky

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et again he’s looking at me with lust dripping from his eyes. “Take it off NOW,” he whispers hoarsely. Like an adarsh naari, I let out a blood curdling nahiiiiin and push him away with brute force. There’s no way I am letting him wear my softer-than-skin, only-for-home tee.

When Sinead O’Connor sang “Nothing Compares to You” for her love that walked out of her life, she had obviously not discovered the orgasmic pleasure of slipping into soft pyjamas and a braless tee after a long tiring day. Especially when the pyjama is as old as the Big Bang and the top has as many holes as there are stars in the sky. Thanks to years of friction against the couch while practising shavasana, the cotton is so threadbare that it now feels like cotton candy. It’s like wearing nothing but a waistband and still not looking slutty.

Hanging out at home somehow emboldens you to bring out your inner ugly with élan. The beautiful side that you have cultivated carefully for the outside world melts away like political correctness to reveal a scruffy but content you. Your “andar ki baat hai” Rupa baniyan becomes your outerwear. You turn a blind eye to your cook’s look of horror when she sees your boobies hanging out without a care in the world. On days they are feeling especially carefree and happy, they even wave out.

Being clad thus makes you feel like what it must be to be a man. You turn into an unapologetic log on the couch that stirs only to scratch its bum and feed itself or grab a beer. Sometimes you don’t even have to get up because you are most likely to find the leftovers of the last meal nestled in the folds of your smock. And if you happen to spill that beer on the couch, all you have to do is lay on it and drag yourself backward and forward to clean it up. On odd days, the delivery guy mistakes you for the maid, on even, for the maid’s maid but you don’t care. You are in heaven.

Your husband, who at first refused to recognise you and called up the mail-order bride service to complain about a mix-up with deliveries, has not only come around but is a now an active threat to your precious pyjamas.

When you’re having a particularly bad day at work and are on the verge of stabbing the non-stop chatterbox in your Ola Share, you can save yourself from a lifetime in jail by just imagining the feel of dusting cloth soft attire on your skin.

But here’s the thing about tattered clothing. You can’t buy it off the racks, you have to create it. It requires years of hard work by your butt and patience to break down that tee and radicalise it into a dishrag that floats from your shoulders like a cloud, jaundiced with age. These are then your prized possessions. You will acquire only about half a dozen and they will be tucked away in the corner of your closet, each with a history of its own. It is your duty to protect them, especially from the husband.

Your husband, who at first refused to recognise you and called up the mail-order bride service to complain about a mix-up with deliveries, has not only come around but is a now an active threat to your precious pyjamas.

You and your nyakra (ask a Bong) don’t exactly scorch the catwalk. There are days when a generous courier guy will insist on leaving behind a tip with a – Madam, kuchh kapde khareed lena. Your sex life will depend on solid stuff like inner beauty and personality. If, on a “me time” day, you open the door to half a dozen relatives with big suitcases, you can blurt, “Saab aur memsahib ghar pe nahin hai”, and promptly shut the door.

It’s a pity that dressing in worn-out rags is not acceptable in civilised society. Men, with their nether regions well-ventilated, may feel less compelled to see women, young and old, as a vagina on two legs or indulge in whataboutery to defend those who think it’s their birthright to rape. Women, freed from the tyranny of impossibly high heels and asthma- inducing fits, will stop throwing hissy fits and the world will be a better place.

Maybe the road to nirvana is not as elusive as the G spot. It looks well-lit and GPS-enabled once you slip into the tattered and the worn out. A state of nothingness within easy reach. Lot simpler than divesting yourself of attachments and materialistic pursuits. Just look at the Khajuraho sculptures! Besides being creative and insanely acrobatic in matters of sex, look how joyful our ancestors looked minus their bras and chaddis.

Nearly funny, almost liberal, rarely serious, Purba likes to keep a safe distance from perfection. Unfortunately she has an opinion on everything, fact or fiction, beginnings or ends, light or heavy, long and short.

When my breasts first arrived, I didn’t quite know how to handle the sudden puberty-induced baggage. As they grew ambitiously in high school into the 36D terrain, I developed a hunch to make them less conspicuous. I thought I’d stop worrying about them in my 30s, but now we are fighting gravity together.

The hotly debated Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Bill was passed in the Lok Sabha on Monday, causing activist to declare a “Gender Justice Murder Day.” The community’s frustration is understandable, as their campaign to have a say in the Bill has gone largely ignored for months.

When we tell little girls that they mature faster than their male counterparts, we’re indirectly teaching them that the onus of being the “bigger person” will always be on them. This is how we create a society where women are forced to look after the men in their lives in a way that will never be reciprocated.